Hold In Memory the Colouring of a Rose

I haven't really lacked for ideas recently, just the energy to write them down. It is really quite mentally taxing, and emotionally like a roller-coaster. I think I must have got going rather quickly once I reached the climax of a scene, for my husband, who had been dutifully ignoring me and working on his own projects, suddenly looked up in startlement and asked what I was writing. I have some notion that I was also making faces at the computer, so I am also embarrassed...

snippets

There was something momentary and odd on the steward’s face—as if several thoughts, unpleasant in their juxtaposition, had occurred to him all at once—and then they were gone again and the man was straight and obedient and subdued as a piece of sword-steel that one has been accustomed to using for a very long time.

talldogs

Raymond regarded his whiskey and his options.

talldogs

The pungent scent of fresh loaves threw him for a moment back into the narrow, cobble-stepped roadway of Tamberlane, yellow and dusky with its bricked walls and overshadowing elms. Was it his imagination, or did that long hallowed lane hold in memory the colouring of a rose, even as this little square of sidewalk did beneath the red-lined awning which was as old as his memory…?

talldogs

...he glanced up to find [she] had come in her rummaging through the chests upon a hand-written notebook of Sebius’ Mathematics, and was casually fanning through the pages. It was a fat, torn, tattered thing, much referenced and subsequently much abused, but he noted that she treated the thing with surprising care within her long, fine hands, and the thrashing, reckless spirit with which she was accustomed to favouring most things seemed to have completely dropped away from her. She held the thing like a fledgling bird.

“Hmm!” she said, ruefully; her cheeks creased back in a deprecating smile. “Trigonométrie.”

drakeshelm

His throat was ragged. His fingers flexed at the thought, but did not lift off the hardwoods. It was sore and ragged as if someone had been trying to crush his windpipe. Somehow he managed to crack his eyelids open: he saw the human figures of the dog and the cat and the badger grouped about him, but he did not connect with them. There was an upended chair near the badger, as if someone had kicked it over. There was a frayed coil of rope at the dog’s feet, with a loop and a knot in one end…

lamblight

She was beautiful. He sat back and gazed down with gently hooded eyes: something bird-like fluttered warmly in his chest. It was pure and lovely and true, and he thought, I would lay my head at her feet.

—Then the ugly thing came darting back into his mind and the corners of his eyes and mouth hardened, his hand tightened on the pen.

lamblight

"Like a hammer I will smash you, as God smashed the tribes of Israel with the hammer of the Assyrians. I will crush you and disperse you, and you will become a byword among men."

cruxgang

“Overlord!” he cried—and in that sudden silence his gasping voice rang out against the stones. “Overlord! Mercy! Sanctuary!”

Emma - I'm glad you enjoyed them, and I'm super glad you're anxious to read Plenilune! I'm afraid I can't give you a date for publication: right now I'm exploring my options so that I know what I am doing when I go to do it. Stay tuned! :D

Your writing is always glorious and magnificent. Don't fret too much about being tired and having difficulty getting things down: it's exhausting, writing this much awesome all the time.

I think I recognize the context of the first Lamblight bit, and of the second Talldogs (I think I read that section), and I love the imagery of the third piece. You have a wonderful ability to appropriately use the most far-fetched images to bring a place or person to life. Good show, all round. XD

Bree - You have no idea how difficult it was to not post the entire context of the second Lamblight snippet. >.>

Abigail - Well, gawrsh. Recently, I feel like I've been writing all this in the teeth of sadness founded and unfounded, but I keep flicking the lighter in the hopes that it will catch every now and then. After all, if I haven't got my writing, I haven't got anything. XD

I forgot that I told you about that Lamblight scene. (Things? Pfft. I never remember them.) I also don't remember if I did show you that Talldogs scene, but I'll pretend I did. I also wrote (just last night) that someone's brow was "speaking archangel volumes," by which I meant "supercilious," and I stopped and thought - "What the deuce." But I suppose people will know what I mean. My images are most far-fetched: like, road-to-Mandalay, Marco-Polo's-Travels far-fetched. I'm not sure it does to examine my prose too closely...

The word sanctuary is one of my favorites. I've always wanted to write a story where someone begs it but so far it's never come up. There's just something about the screaming out for protection, the moment of vulnerability and complete helplessness that appeals to me.

Some people say always use one word instead of many if you can but I like "speaking archangel volumes" sometimes imagery is more precious than conciseness. 'Good writing" is traditionally the spare that packs punch but there is something to be said for a lavishness. That's one of the things I love about yours- it spills out and pours down like the cup running over. A different kind of beauty but who ever said that everything need be conventional?

Your images may be different from many others, but if you were going to write the same as everyone else what would be the point? :) Anyway, I was debating re-reading The Shadow Things or stopping by to say how much I am looking forward to the publishing of your next book, whenever that may be...I may end up doing both. ;) And his whiskey and his options. yes.